#to be fair a new person at the center stuck my needle and moved it around more than usual

[thecooleraveragejamm]

love that when i went to donate blood it clotted 3 minutes in, yet when I go to donate plasma it was perfectly fine

[tonystarktogo]

Could I pretty pretty please get some more on the time travel crack au? Maybe when it gets out that Steve, Bruce, andThor are technically from the future?

As much as I’d love to jump to that part, I think it’s funnier necessary to cover a few other tidbits first. For example:

Tony misses whatever discussion follows Thor’s -- hah, got it right in one, he hasn’t lost his touch completely yet -- arrival before the god carries his brother off towards a containment cell with the sort of cheer that causes Tony to carefully keep at least two people between himself and Thor, lest the asshole tries to hug him again.

Not that it can be that big a loss considering they all -- sans Loki -- end up back in the command center of the helicarrier, where Fury glares balefully at the most recent invader of his precious aircraft that clearly isn’t meant to stand in the way of gods.

A glare Thor aggressively doesn’t notice. Likely because he’s too busy partaking in the on-going discussion on what to do next.

And by ‘what to do next’ Tony doesn’t mean the expected we-were-invaded-by-a-mindcontrolled-alien-nutbag-and-there’s-probably-more-out-there-seems-like-the-kind-of-oh-shit-situation-we-should-plan-for. No. That would be reasonable and expected and Tony’s spent all of three hours in the company of the esteemed Captain America and already he can tell you that Rogers is none of that.

[Which, not cool, Capsicle. Dazzling and befuddling people with crazily brilliant ideas is his job.]

[continues under the cut]

So far, Tony’s been paying attention for ten minutes. In that time, Rogers and Thor have gotten into an argument over how to handle Loki -- which holy shit, that went from a calm, rational discussion to a battle to the death between two superhumans on a sugar high in zero point four seconds -- that Tony is so not gonna touch. [Nope. Let some other fool [i.e. Rogers] throw himself head-first into norse god family drama, Tony’s own feelings concerning his family are complicated enough.] That conversation devolved into a not-openly-fighting-while-totally-fighting stand-off between Rogers and Banner over a way too bitter comment from the latter [something about ‘you’d know all about choosing one brother over the other, wouldn’t you’ which what?], which in turn gets derailed by Banner needling Thor about the merits of beheading over stabbing.

Romanoff had the good sense to disappear -- probably to interrogate Loki while his apparently protective big brother is distracted, now that Tony thinks about it. 

Unfortunately that still leaves Tony stuck here, having to play the role of the mature adult because no one else fucking will. Tony hates being responsible. It’s like being back in high school and being left to do all the work on your own in group project.

[Tony failed that project. Got a straight up zero on purpose because spite is a wonderful motivator. Which, now that Tony thinks about it, doesn’t say anything promising about the current situation.]

Tony leans even further back in his seat, only balancing on the backlegs of the chair, to give Fury a very sharp, very judgemental look.

These are the people you’re betting Earth’s survival on, that look says.

Fury’s already pissed off expression darkens further, which brightens Tony mood substantially. That one of the suit’s sensors flashes green twice in quick succession less than a minute later really just makes for a delicious cherry on the top. Or more precisely a good excuse to ditch this trainwreck of a match-making attempt.

“Whoops,” Tony says, clearly audible but not too loud to draw real attention from the three [still arguing-while-pretending-not-to] stooges on the other end of the room. “Looks like I gotta take this call.”

He jiggles his fingers at Fury. The guy rolls his eyes -- probably jealous that he doesn’t have an excuse himself, that bitch face doesn’t fool Tony -- but no one tries to stop him.

“Alright, J, what do you have for me?”

*

Tony pretends not to notice the shuffling footsteps. Glances at the disturbingly normal clock on the wall that is so not up-to-date with the rest of the technology in the room, it must be an inside joke. Tony would love to meet the SHIELD agent behind it -- it can’t be easy, being the only person with a sense of humor in an entire agency.

30 minutes.

Well. That’s longer than Tony thought he’d get. JARVIS still hasn’t cracked the last layer on SHIELD’s really fucked up dirt -- and given what he’s already found, that says a lot -- but it’s only a matter of time now. Besides, Tony’s got a job to do.

“To- Stark.”

“Rogers.”

Tony doesn’t turn. Neither does he stop typing.

“What are you doing?”

Tony scoffs. He’s not in the mood to pander to inferior minds -- not when they’re so fucking frustrating, don’t make any sense and worst of all make him do all the work. 

“He’s tracking the Tesseract, using the scepter as a point of reference,” Banner says after taking one look at the screen over Tony’s shoulder.

Tony raises his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. Banner’s credentials clearly don’t do him justice -- and they were pretty damn good to begin with.

“Huh,” says Rogers.

Thanks for playing. Now buckle down and make yourself useful or fuck off, Tony wants to snipe but doesn’t get the chance to because the gods -- this god at least -- just aren’t on his side.

“Even without my brother’s help, a weapon of the tesseract’s might should not be underestimated,” Thor speaks up. “Should we not make haste and collect it?”

"Great idea.” Tony’s voice is dryer than the sand dune he crash-landed in back during his fun little trip to Afghanistan. “If only I’d thought of that instead of inventing fifteen new algorithms to try and get a read on SHIELD’s precious magic eight ball while you were busy defending your brother’s honor. Speaking of, I’m pretty sure Romanoff is a greater danger to his virtue than Captain Shockfreeze over there, so why are you still here?”

Okay, maybe poking the hornet nest that is godly family isn’t his smartest move [didn’t he just say he wasn’t gonna touch that?!] but damn if Tony isn’t curious. And also too annoyed to care about unimportant, subjective things like good manners and tact.

He sort of regrets his cavalier attitute a little when Thor sobers. At least there are no tears in sight. Tony is the last person on Earth who should be left unsupervised around crying people. It just never ends well.

“Ah.” Thor sighs heavily, stems his body against an unfortunate table that creaks dangerously. "I’m afraid I can’t afford to see my brother right now.”

It’s the way he says those words, the weight they carry more than anything that tells Tony he needs to drop this issue right now. Talk about one huge trigger button.

Must be inconvenient to have siblings. Tony totally can’t relate.

“Well, in that case, unless you have a magic trick with which you can pull the Tesseract’s position out of your sleeve, how about you sit as far away from these delicate instruments as possible and don’t touch anything while I work my magic, hm?”

Tony doesn’t let his gaze linger on the crushed edge of the table. Thor hasn’t even seemed to notice. He’s too busy lighting up at Tony’s snappish response. Which is surprising. Tony’s aware he’s a bit of an asshole right now. In his defence, he’s an asshole most of the time.

Rogers leaps across the room -- almost crashing into the previously mentioned delicate sensors as he does so -- to slap his palm over Thor’s mouth.

Tony stares. [How quickly can you develop a new habit again? Because this starts to feel like a new habit.]

“That sounds like a great plan!” Rogers beams at him, so wide and fake it must be physically painful for the epitome of all that is good and holy. At least Tony hopes it is. The supersoldier his father worshipped is still clinging to their resident god of thunder’s face.

It’s.

Tony resolutely turns his back on both of them because their madness doesn’t seem to come with a refund-ticket and if Tony doesn’t finish this program, no one will.

Not even Banner -- whom Tony had been kind of hoping for. Speaking of, the man’s been awfully quiet for a while now.

“You alright there, Brucie-Bear?” Tony turns around -- a little because it’s polite to face people when you talk with them and mostly to have an excuse not to watch the ongoing doomed wrestle-match between Blonde 1 and Blonde 2. His awesome nicknaming skill doesn’t get so much as a twitch.

To be fair, Banner is so busy staring straight ahead with the most epic rendition of the World’s Most Thoughtful Expression™ Tony has seen in a while that it doesn’t seem like the man heard him. At all.

Until he suddenly speaks up.

“I think we’ve forgotten something.” Behind Tony the impromptu wrestling comes to a sudden halt.

Probably something negligible like how to focus on a mission, the sarcastic voice in the back of Tony’s mind drawls. Though it should be noted that Tony’s consciousness only comes in sarcastic or not at all. Sorry, everyone, all the other flavors are out.

Banner’s frown deepens. “Something- Something important.”

Right on cue an explosion rocks the aircraft.

*

There’s a bit more tension in this part than the previous ones. On Tony’s side it’s because he’s smart enough to pick up on Something Is Seriously Wrong, both consciously and subconsciously and also because he feels the pressure what with everyone else apparently not taking this whole thing very seriously.

[Excluding Natasha who, believe me, takes Clint’s fate very serious indeed.]

On our time travellers’ side, they experience the frustration of being unable to talk openly, surrounded by people they don’t trust, trying to play along to the script of a movie they watched like 12 years ago and never revisited. Needless to say they’re failing horrenduously.

[jengajives]

So I know canonically Barahir and Finrod probably never met again after the Bragollach but I just WANT THEM TO

(My personal hc for Barahir and Emeldir is that they’re Gay Besties and her sweetheart died years ago and he never found the man for him but they both really wanted a child so they had Beren and raised him together as friends, and all the people of Dorthonion totally knew what was up but played along anyway.)

Also excuse my Sindarin, i am awful at languages

“My lord.”

The voice seemed deafening in the chamber of Finrod- the quiet space he sulked in when all of Nargothrond’s riches seemed empty and lifeless to him. When the company of his brother, his niece, and all his people just wasn’t enough.

He turned from his tapestry slowly, almost unwilling. If Celegorm and Curufin wanted another counsel, he had run out of excuses to deny them. All he wanted to do was stand around looking at the tapestry of Tirion he kept on the wall to substitute for a proper window.

“What is it?” he asked tiredly, unable even to muster the energy for a proper hello. The attendant bowed anyway.

“It’s the border wardens, your Highness. They’ve apprehended a trespasser on the eastern marches- a Man. He carries your ring, sir. He’s requested an audience.”

It seemed as if everything went utterly still and for several long moments Finrod could not speak.

He had to rub his eyes to ensure he was awake and hearing correctly. This wasn’t just the dream that had haunted him more years now than he could count.

“By all means,” Finrod said in a strangled voice, “bring him before me.”

It isn’t. It can’t be. He’s dead.

The attendant bowed again, all low and respectful. “I’ll let you know as soon as they reach the city, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Finrod wasn’t paying attention properly anymore; he was suddenly very worried about what he was wearing, how he looked. The way he dressed around Nargothrond was very different than his war attire, and it was very concerning when he worried whether Barahir would even be able to recognize him.

No, no. Barahir was dead five winters now. It didn’t matter whether he looked familiar or not, he was dead.

Still, though. There was a chance.

Finrod threw open his wardrobe with something akin to panic.

The woods of Dorthonion were dense and dark, with occasional beams of golden sunlight filtering through the high pine trees and turning the bed of needles to luminous white. There wasn’t too much undergrowth, which made it easy to ride through, and Finrod did so with as much speed as his mare could manage, flying over falling trees and secret glens that few among the Elves had ever looked on, thundering across rushing mountain creeks with all the speed of the Valar. He held his arms out to the wind and let his golden braids flow loose behind him.

When he at last came to the little green valley he’d been directed to, he slowed his mare to a stop and stood there a moment on the ridge. The people of Bëor lived in small homesteads spotted over the highlands, and here a number of them gathered together alongside a cool, fresh creek to graze their animals on its fair grasses. The largest of the wooden homes was nestled just beneath the rolling, forested hills, sheltered by the river’s curve and somewhat apart from the others. It was here Finrod rode, galloping eagerly across the meadows of the basin.

A handful of sturdy horses grazed on the green pasture in front of the house, along with a pair of cows and one freshly-sheared sheep. Finrod rode along the tree-lined lane until he came to the house itself.

It was single-storied, made of finely hewn logs painted with red and gold, and a thatched ceiling that looked freshly lain. On one side stood a small barn for the animals, and on the other a woodshed that had seen better days. Finrod dismounted took a moment to take it all in. A warm smile crossed his face.

At once, the worn blue door opened, and a Man came hurrying out. He was dressed in simple work trousers and a maroon shirt that wasn’t tied all the way and showed off the warm brown hair of his chest, but he was hastily throwing a fur coat over the top of it all as he stumbled down his stairs.

“King Felagund!” he choked, obviously out of breath. Finrod noticed a gleam of gold on his middle finger. “We- I- This is most unexpected!”

“I must apologize for the intrusion, Barahir,” he said with pity. “I was riding back from Hithlum and I became… sidetracked.” Then he smiled again. “I hope it’s not too much trouble?”

“Trouble!” Barahir shook his head a little too energetically. “No trouble at all! It’s just… “ He motioned helplessly to the house behind him. “t’s not much. Certainly nothing like a prince like yourself would-“

“Barahir,” Finrod said, bold enough now to take the Man’s hand in his own. “Your home is beautiful.”

Barahir visibly relaxed. His face went soft.

“It is… very good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

“To you, it’s Finrod.” He gave the hand a squeeze. “You have more than earned that right.”

Barahir’s tawny cheeks went red.

Finrod thought he would have kissed him then, if it had been for the little voice that interrupted them.

“Papa!”

Immediately Finrod straightened up and looked over Barahir’s shoulder to the doorway.

A small, brown face peeked out from inside. Just a beam of light caught on dark curls and turned them shining auburn.

Finrod’s expression went slack for only a moment before the corners of his mouth began to peak upward.

“Who’s this?” he asked eagerly. The child stuck his head out further to show two gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you one of the Valar?” he called, somewhat shyly.

Finrod smiled.

“No, child. Why do you think so?”

The little one gave a sheepish shrug. “You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” Finrod looked down. His tunic was indeed embroidered with gold and there were jewels in his hair. The thought of this innocent child mistaking him for a Vala was a very fond one, though.

“Beren,” Barahir called. “This is King Felagund. He’s a very powerful and noble Elf. Come over here and give a him a nice bow.”

Beren slowly moved onto the steps and made his way over, still cautious. He was wearing a green shirt that was too big for him and clutched a stuffed hound in one hand. Immediately Finrod saw the likeness with Barahir; other than the boy’s darker shade of hair, the two were nearly identical.

Finrod glanced at Barahir as the child approached.

“Yours?”

“Yes, he is.”

When Beren reached his father’s side, he shut his eyes tight and performed a bow so deep he nearly toppled. “At your service, King Felagund, sir!”

Finrod laughed and dropped to one knee so he could look the boy in the eyes. “An honor, Beren, prince of Dorthonion. I could not ask for more steadfast a Man!”

Beren cracked one eye, then the other. He gave a cursory glance to his father, then pointed at the great palomino mare waiting patiently on the lane.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

Barahir clicked his tongue. “Beren, be polite.” Finrod chose to ignore him.

“She is Glânhen, Brighteyes,” he said to Beren, as if he were sharing a secret. “She very much likes to eat. I think she might let you ride her if you find space for her in your pasture.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I can do that, sir!” He squinted up at the horse. “Where’s her bridle?”

“She’ll follow you,” Finrod said. He told the horse something in Quenya and she nickered, and then he straightened to let the bouncing little boy hurry past, motioning to the mare eagerly.

“Follow me, Glânhen! I’ll find you the best grass we’ve got!”

The pair of them trotted off together- the massive steed of Valinor, and the little woodsman’s boy leading her like an obedient pup. Finrod got distracted a moment just smiling at the sight, until Barahir chuckled behind him.

“Well, I… I didn’t know you were fond of children.” He paused, obviously bashful, before he slipped out the name like he thought it might bite him. “Finrod.”

“Very fond. He’s a wonderful boy, Barahir. How old?”

“Five this spring.”

“My.” A wistful smile crossed Finrod’s face. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A silence passed, but it was broken when Barahir reached out and took his hand. “Will you come in?”

Finrod turned and the joy he felt looking at that gentle face was unlike anything he’d felt for countless years.

“I would love to.”

Felagund paced his throne room, back and forth, an anxious rhythm like the thudding of his own heartbeat. The tapestries and jewels felt suddenly profane. Would Barahir know him here? Surrounded by wealth and finery and all the glory of the princes of the Noldor?

Of course he would. Barahir would know him anywhere.

But it wasn’t going to be Barahir who walked through his doors. Dead five years at least, cut down in the highlands of Dorthonion all alone and friendless.

Finrod’s fault. He had tried to send help, tried to send forces through to reinforce the outlaws or bring them back, but no one had been able to brave the Haunted Wood. No one could get through. And Barahir had died alone in the mud, because Finrod’s strength had failed.

No. It could be him. He could have escaped. None of the Eldar were there to see him fall. It could be a mistake.

The golden doors swung open.

Finrod turned, suddenly frozen, as a company of his march wardens stepped inside with a Man held between them like some lesser prisoner. He was so thoroughly surrounded that Finrod couldn’t get a good look at him.

“Leave him,” he called, irritation wearing his voice thin. “He is no trespasser here if what I am told is true.”

The wardens bowed, and moved aside, and there in the center of the room stood Barahir son of Bregor with the cares of many lifetimes etched across his face.

The air left Felagund’s lungs.

He looked just as he had the very last time they had seen each other.

Tears blurred his vision, and when he wiped them away, he saw through new eyes, and the Man he saw was not the one he had dreamed of.

The curls were too dark. The build too tall. The face alike in almost every way, but there was something there now that made it painfully obvious Felagund had been mistaken. He deflated at once and collapsed back into his throne, face in his hands, floundering just a moment in defeat.

“King Felagund, sir,” called the Man. “I thank you for your hospitality. I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, but I need-“ Abruptly, the trembling voice broke on a sob and trailed into tearfulness. “I- I need your help. Please.”

Finrod looked up again and his eyes softened, recognizing the sensitivity behind those eyes. He rose and stepped slowly down until he stood before the Man with pity in his heart and tears running down his face.

He put a hand on the rough-clothed shoulder.

“Beren,” he said softly, as fervent as he could manage. “I will do anything within my power to help you, no matter the cost.”

When Beren at last looked up to meet his eye, it was the same face of the shy woodsman’s son he had met all those years ago, and Finrod decided then that he would go gladly to his death if it would bring Barahir’s son to the fulfillment of his errand.

[poptod]

Terrified (Elliot Alderson x Reader)

Description: Mental hospitals probably aren’t the best place to form relationships of any sort.

Notes: Angst and self harm and general mental unwellness. This is a mental hospital after all. There is also smut but it’s still gender neutral. Word Count: 3.6k

God, what wouldn't you do for a chance to start everything over. Never gain self awareness, never wake up the day you turned thirteen, never grow to despise yourself to the deepest corners of your soul. That was when it really started after all – around the age of thirteen, when hormones kicked in and you learned the words you said had an impact on those listening. It was also then you learned you were a genuinely awful person, and despite your many efforts to become better, nothing worked.

You didn't even try to hide the fact that you hated yourself. Instead, your logic was that everyone had to know – everyone had to know that you were aware of how horrible you were, and everyone had to know that you were punishing yourself constantly, they had to know that you hated yourself. But no one likes hanging around someone who hates themself, so eventually you were left alone. After that, you never made friends with anyone again, no one bothering to stay.

Elliot didn't stay either. To be fair, he was much like you in the aspect that not very many people liked him. In school he was smarter than most people, quiet and seemingly rude, and though the two of you were never truly friends, he recognized you years later. In prison.

It wasn't really a prison, though most of the people there called it a prison, including much of the staff. But no, it was actually a hospital – a mental hospital, where people with addictions stayed, people fucked up in the head, people like you and him.

You sat in a circle with the other patients, going around and talking about your own traumas and your own issues. Elliot hadn't said anything to you yet, but by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, it was safe enough to say he recognized you. To your left, the next person stood and talked about their physical abuse. Unfortunately you'd been there long enough that sob stories didn't affect you that much, if at all. You would be next once they were done – and like most times, you wouldn't say anything. Accustomed to your behavior, the instructor moved to the next person, but you didn't start listening until Elliot spoke.

"I'm here for substance abuse," he said, dull and monotone. Nothing else.

You returned to your room shortly after, habitually checking the secret pocket in your night stand, full of unhealthy coping methods that seemed to be the only thing that worked. Sneaking your hand in, you pulled out a blunt, hiding it in your pocket as you stood, heading off to the bathroom. On the way you passed Elliot, who by some remote chance noticed your hand fidgeting with the blunt through the material of your sweatshirt. He stopped you right before you reached the unisex bathroom.

"What's in your pocket?" He asked quietly, wary of any passerby.

"Weed," you answered truthfully.

"Can I join?" He asked, fidgeting. You nodded, and he followed you, the both of you sneaking silently into the bathroom.

Pulling out your lighter, you pulled on the starter, a flame burning at the end of the blunt. Once it began to smoke you tucked it away, taking your first drag as a sense of calm came over you. You handed it to Elliot.

"Maybe our school fucked us up," he muttered, letting smoke fall with his words, "that's why we're both here."

"Nah," you said, staring up at the ceiling. "I fucked myself up, all on my own."

He chuckled.

After that, he stuck with you a little bit. You understood why – you're practically the dealer of the hospital, getting your stash from a man on the outside who visited you every now and then. In return he could stay in your apartment, as long as he kept it clean enough. Didn't really matter to you anyway, since you weren't about to get out anytime soon, and you had quite a lot of money saved up.

Sometimes Elliot visited your room, and on one such afternoon you felt so heavy with dread that once more you reached into that hidden pocket, pulling out a pocket knife, the only sharp object you could sneak in. In plain view of him you dug it into your skin, feeling nothing. You used to feel something – pain, excitement, adrenaline, but now it's such a common occurrence that it's just another day. Another mindless task. Elliot didn't agree, not by the way his eyes widened.

In a swift movement he snatched the pocket knife from you, putting the knife back into the body and shoving it into his own pocket.

"What the fuck are you doing," he gritted out, scolding you.

"What are you gonna do about it? Tell the doctors? Fuck off," you said, shoving his leg with your foot.

He swore, either to you or himself before leaving, taking your pocket knife with him.

The next thing you got your hands on was a thick sewing needle. It was strong, and the slide into your skin wasn't an easy one, but it was new. Almost exciting. At least you now knew not to do it in front of Elliot; he probably had a thing about blood.

Eventually he found out, though the circumstances sure were, if there was a word to describe it, odd. Odd didn't encapsulate the whole of the experience, but you could think of nothing else to call it.

It's one of those sessions in the bathroom, exhaling smoke and watching the haze slowly disappear into the fan before one of you took another hit. The blunt in your hand was beginning to fade, the very end of it scrunched between your fingers. It was at that point that he stepped close to you, invading your personal space so harshly that the blunt dropped from you and smoldered on the white-tile floor. His chest pressed to yours, his gaze dropped to your lips, where the remnants of your last breath left, laced grey and smelling thick with weed. You tried to back up to get your heartbeat under control, but you were already pressed up against the sink.

Grabbing a fist of your shirt in his hand he pulled you forward, kissing you warm and harsh, and it's a thrill more exciting than the cuts and the needles. For a moment you felt like you were living, like you hadn't wasted so much of your life hating everything. His lips moved frantically against yours, hands gripping your hair and tugging, hips nearly grinding into yours.

You were surprised, to say the least. He wasn't ever the type to enjoy sexual stuff, at least not to your knowledge of what he shared with you, and he never liked to be touched. So while you were quite confused, it wasn't all that unwelcome. He was nice enough and his eyes were pretty, and when he hummed, the vibrations passing into you, you could feel your knees go weak.

It would've been a perfect day, a perfect smoke session if he hadn't wanted to go further. Instead he pulled at your shirt, tugging to try and rid you of the bright white fabric, forcing it over your head and tossing it into a corner of the room. Without thought you tried to continue, but a gasp left him and he stepped back.

Looking down, you remembered your torso dotted with small scabs from the needle, bruises coloring your skin dark purple and yellow. You weren't even scared of him noticing. No, the only thought in your head was fuck, I'm not gonna get more kisses, instead of what it should've been, which was more along the lines of fuck, Elliot caught my horrendous act.

"You really fucking hate yourself, don't you?" He asked, taking another step back till he hit the wall behind him.

"Never said I didn't," you said dully. "Does this mean we can't fuck?"

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You have no morality. Maybe you should hate yourself – you don't fucking care about anyone but you. Stuck in your own goddamn world."

He left and you broke down crying, sitting on the bathroom floor with your knees held tight against your chest. You told yourself all of those things – you already knew you were self centered, that you didn't care about other people, that you always said and did the wrong thing, but it always hurt. It always would, and the only thing to ever dull it was drugs and sharp objects. Right then you didn't have your needle, and you didn't feel like getting it, so instead you found your lighter and burnt scars into your skin.

For the next couple days you laid in bed, unmoving save for your breath. Staring at the wall. Hunger gnawing. You didn't deserve food, nor to breathe, though you continued doing the latter. Sometimes you'd forget to breathe, but it never lasted long. You wished it lasted longer.

In the night, before lockdown, he snuck into your room when he thought you were sleeping. He rifled through your belongings, searching for a while before he stood and made his way to the door. You watched from your bed, watching as his fingers curl around your needle and your lighter, watching as he left and closed the door behind him.

It took a little while but you found the energy to confront him, dragging your body out of bed and meeting him in the courtyard, where he spent hours watching birds and squirrels in the trees and fields. He sat on one of the wooden benches beside the water fountain, and you sat beside him.

"I want my stuff back," you said plainly, unsure of how else to put it.

"I want you to stop," he said in return.

With both of you at an impasse, you sat in silence for a while, contemplating how you could either get your things back or get new ones. Your dealer wouldn't be visiting you for another month, but when he did you could ask for another pocket knife. That whole process would take two months – far too long for you. You needed it now. The only way you were hurting yourself was through starvation, and while it could bring some fantastic pain (and a few fainting sessions) it wasn't enough.

"Elliot, please," you tried once more.

Nothing.

"You do it then," you suggested, something that pulled his concentration away from the black squirrel to you. "You hurt me if you want to control it so badly."

"Are you seriously asking me to cut you up?"

"Please," you said softly, your voice cracking with need. Scooting closer to him you rested your hand on his thigh, high enough that his heat is embarrassingly obvious, while you put your chin on his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck with your nose, lips barely brushing his skin. He froze.

"There's cameras," he gritted out.

His discomfort was obvious, but you didn't care all that much. He wanted you for some reason, whether it was sexual or romantic, and you could use that against him. But you didn't really want to do that with him in broad daylight, so you stopped, instead resting your head against his shoulder and intertwining your fingers in his.

He found you at midnight, sneaking in and taking your hand. Your room wouldn't do – there were cameras. The only place without cameras was the bathroom, so like many times before he led you there, locking the door behind the two of you once you entered.

"You're a damn brat, I hope you know that," Elliot growled as he stepped into your space, his hand coming to cradle your jaw, almost like he cared about you. Like you might've been worth his time. It didn't last, of course – the next moment his hand moved to your hair, yanking as he kissed you so fiercely you could feel everything in your body tense up.

A moan fell from you as he ground his hips into you once more, helpless and needy in a way you only felt from your knives. His heat melded with yours, pushing and grinding, pulling from you an excitement that burned through your veins.

"You really wanna feel something?" He asked, breathing heavy against your bare neck as he began to fumble with your pants, his movements forceful and curt. Pulling at the knot he released it, letting your pants sag past your hips. He dug his nails into your side, indenting moons in your skin as his other hand went lower, stroking low around your hips to allow room  to insert his leg between yours. With one hand on either side of your body he forced you down, making you grind against him. A broken moan left you.

You barely had the time to hold him, to ground yourself in his touch before he buried his face in your neck, biting so hard you could feel blood dripping down your collarbones. Shocked from the adrenaline your mouth hung open, the softest of whimpers falling between you.

"Come on, baby," he mumbled, once more pushing you down on his leg as he began to leave kisses in a trail up to your cheek. "I want you to grind on me."

"What?" You asked weakly, still caught up in the fact that this was an actual thing that was happening. God, the pain felt sweet. You could feel how hard he was beneath his pants, still grinding into your hips.

"Fucking grind," he hissed out, nails digging deeper into you. You gasped, pained and pleasured as he did so, hesitating only a second before you complied. "That's it," he whispered, kissing your temple when you moaned softly at the sensation.

It didn't take long till he was clawing at your shirt, tossing it onto the floor, but this time he ignored your fading scars in favor of working your pants off you. With his hands mostly off your skin, you gained enough mind to start pulling at his clothes, till both of you stood naked in the bathroom, pressed up against each other in a tangle of limbs and tongue. Now you could see just how you affected him, his cock against your stomach as he kissed you in the same frenzy he first kissed you with.

He prepared you for him slowly, almost caring, though the bite marks lining your shoulders and the marks on your hips said a far different story. With several of his fingers inside you he dug his other hand into his pocket, keeping you pinned with the whole of his body as he drew out your pocket knife. You watched it with a fervor – your knife, and you watched him, watched as he flicked open the blade, watched as he pressed it against the soft skin of your stomach, watched as the bruises indented and blood ran from a cut stark against the putrid yellow and green of your skin. You watched him run his finger over it, bringing the taste of your blood on his tongue before he kissed you, slow and methodical as his fingers left you.

Immediately you missed his warmth, missed being filled up like that, but he replaced himself well, hooking your left leg around his hip and sliding into you with one, smooth thrust. You murmured a sweet sigh, high and happy in all those ways you missed so dearly. Gentle but messy you kissed his cheek and his temple, waiting for the both of you to get used to the feeling before he moved.

As he pulled out slowly, he ran the knife against your skin, keeping the same beat as his hips. A long, shallow cut on your side, droplets of blood already beginning to pool, till he thrusted forcefully back in, squeezing the fresh cut as he did so. You choked on your breath – too much, not enough.

"I knew you'd like that," he mumbled, low and soft. "Fucking whore."

He kept that rhythm for a while – out slow, in fast, before he apparently tired of it. When that happened he pulled all the way out, spinning you around so you faced the mirror and thrusting right back into you, so deep that your head dropped, your muscles unable to fully work. He kept your pocket knife, leaving scrapes and tiny nicks on your back and chest, watching as the angry red slits swelled in the mirror, and if you were lucky, dripped crimson.

"Elliot," you mumbled breathlessly, too caught up in how he felt to inhabit your own body. How he filled you up, so warm and so rough, the fresh marks you could see all over your body. Just what you wanted. "God, El, please fuck me harder."

His fast-paced thrusts stopped suddenly, his cold eyes meeting yours in the mirror.

"Don't tell me what to do," he said, releasing your hip and curling your hair in his hands, yanking you back so hard you yelped. With his other hand he positioned the pocket knife right at your neck, the blade digging into your skin.

"El, please," you whispered, shutting your eyes.

"Look at yourself," he ordered, and you complied, slowly opening your eyes to see yourself across from you. Bloodied, beaten, sweaty, and needy, and plain pathetic. You couldn’t even tell your own marks from his.

Slowly he inched his way back in, watching your expression carefully till he rested at the hilt, his breathing uneven every time you tightened yourself around him.

"You really want to be this person?" He asked you, his voice suddenly soft, so different from how he was.

"I don't know how to be anything else," you said. It was true – normal people didn't like you, didn't understand you, and though less-than-normal people also didn't like you, they understood you a little better. That placed you with them. You couldn't be anyone else.

Fully sheathed inside you he traced his fingertips against your skin, every movement loving as he placed kisses along your shoulders and neck. He nuzzled against you – that warmth sent a shiver down your back. It was all he wanted, to be close to you, to hold you softly, but you had to go and hate yourself so harshly you wanted him to bleed you.

"I really liked you," he admitted softly, slowly opening his eyes to meet your reflection's gaze. "But you're sick."

"Get down of your high horse, Elliot," you said, voice rough from your own moans and whines, "you're here, just like me."

"I'm glad I got to see you anyways," he murmured, airy as he dug the blade just a little more deep into your skin, promising blood soon enough.

He withdrew the knife, something that sent relief through you. It wasn't even the dying aspect or the pain aspect that had you worried – it was the fact that if any of the nurses saw you with a cut on your neck, you'd be put in solitary with a straight jacket, and no one came out of that room sane. Elliot though, ever one to obey your wishes cut another line into your stomach, another into your hip as he fucked you hard and fast, just the way you'd asked him to.

One moment his thrusts were frantic and the next he halted, burying himself as deep inside of you as he could before he came, a quiet groan as he filled you up. With your own end reached you looked at yourself once more, across the bruises and the old and new cuts. Small pools of blood had gathered on the sink, dripping downwards towards the drain, where you recalled bleeding many times before.

Your arms shook as he pulled out, a weak feeling flooding your muscles as everything let go. The grip you held so tightly on the sink faded away, and your jaw unclenched, allowing you to look up into the mirror and watch him behind you. He was sorting his clothes from your own, his pants already on.

"Happy?" He asked, fluffing out one of the shirts in an attempt to see the size.

You were – at least you should've been. He'd done exactly what you asked of him.

But it wasn't enough.

He hurt you till you bled, clawed into your skin and bit so hard it broke you. It still wasn't enough, and for the first time you asked yourself, what will be enough? If he'd done all that and you still weren't satisfied, maybe it wasn't the pain. Maybe it was you.

Maybe he was right.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, your knees giving out beneath you and letting you crumple to the floor. He didn't rush to your side, but he looked concerned enough, and dropped the shirt in favor of kneeling beside you.

"Wasn't enough, was it?" He said as though he knew, and you nodded.

With a heavy sigh he sat down on his knees, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in, allowing you to rest your weight on him. It was nice. He was nice. He smelled sweet and he held you close, a pleasant weight around you with his warm breath atop your head, and a kiss to make it even. In return you showed affection – it was what he wanted after all, how he acted when in complete control with you at his mercy. You cradled yourself in his touch, let your heart beat wildly next to his, your lips pressing the sweetest and first kiss on his sternum. No one else had let you come that close to them.

He did, for some unknown reason. He let you come close to him.

You're terrified of hurting him.

[quackmyback]

Her Muse : Min Yoongi

Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader

PART ONE???

a/n : heyyy, it’s al and this is my lil fic. its mostly to help me practice my writing, but if you like it let me know :)

word count : 2670+

Annalise Moberly -- more commonly known as Rio to the rest of the world -- could definitely be classified as a rarity; a morning person. Her band mates didn't even refer to her with the term, instead, they took up the lovely adjective 'insane' to call their main vocalist. On anyday, at exactly at five fifteen in the morning, you could find Annie in the girl's kitchen with a mug of coffee -- black -- snuggled in her hands. She would we tucked away in a brightly colored sweater without any pants on -- because who wheres pants at home? -- and a book with too many pages beneath her nose. It would be a romance novel, she was a sap for those, and by the time she finished her coffee she would be almost halfway to halfway done. It was probably her superpower -- besides waking up at the ass crack of dawn -- to be able to read a book so quickly the flash would be envious.

That's where Min-ji found Annie that morning when she found herself once again in the clutches of her insomnia. Although, this time it was earlier than normal. This time it was around one in the morning and Min-ji was beyond confused.

"Annie?" Min-ji roared when she spoke. It was never on purpose, she just was a naturally loud and bubbly person. Annie didn't jump, she expected her friend to slump down the steps and pop around the kitchen corner fairly soon. Also, nothing really scared Annie; she always had been an impenetrable brick wall according to her moms.

Annie hummed in response to her friend, her eyes didn't leave her monitor as she typed mindlessly on her laptop.

"What're you doing awake?" Min-ji was confused, not beyond, just confused. She was, actually, beyond used to Annie waking up at ungodly hours of the day. Just never this hour.

"Couldn't sleep," Annie sniffled, wiggling her nose and pursing her lips. "Figured why not get a head start on some new beats. Some new jams, get hizzy with it-"

"Stop. Please, just, stop." Min-ji raised her hand as she reached the fridge, turning away from Annie and rummaging inside of it. Annie glanced up and could've sworn -- hand over heart and needle through eye -- that Min-ji's lower half disappeared inside of the damn thing. When she reappeared, she held a hug of milk and practically threw it on the counter.

"My god, MinMin, I thought you had insomnia not anger issues," Annie crinkled her nose at the violence towards the dairy product. Her fingers found their way around the mug just beside her laptop, it was filled with calming chamomile this time. Not black coffee. She didn't get a reaponse from Min-ji, just an exhausted grunt and a casual flip of a -- not so nice -- finger. "There's tea in the kettle if you-okay"

Annie cut herself off as Min-ji slammed a mug -- hopefully, not precious -- down onto the counter and poured a hefty glass of milk. Min-ji thought for a second before she turned around again to put the milk up. Once the fridge devoured her for a little bit, she was spat back out with a new bottle in her hands.

"Is that rum?" Annie raised her brows at her elder bandmate, watching her wearily. Min-ji glared up and into Annie's eyes as she unscrewed the top. Her hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle and tipped it over the side, pouring in a fair amount of liquor. "Alrighty then."

Annie closed her laptop, her dainty fingers pressing the screen down onto the keys. She finished off her mug of chamomile, watching Min-ji chug down the whole mug quicker than Annie could say 'holy shit, bitch.'

Annie shoved her chair back, the legs smoothly gliding across the pristine -- alright, that's a bit if an exaggeration -- white tile. She walked around the island, landing beside Min-ji.

"You do know what time it is, right?" Anne quirked her brow, her concern rising as Min-ji -- determined to suckle the last drop of her mixture -- had her nose and mouth tucked into the mug.

Min-ji's eyes poked around the mugs rim, shooting a look towards Annie as she placed her own mug into the sink. Her voice was simultaneously muffled and echoey from inside the mug,"Of course, do I look incompetent to you?" Annie opened her mouth to answer, a good already on the tip of her tongue.

"Well-"

"Rhetorical. Do not answer that," Min-ji dropped the mug from her face and sat it in the sink next to Annie's. Annie smiled tiredly, sluggishly moving to retrieve her laptop and push in her barstool. The effects of her chamomile were already pumping through her veins. Her head felt foggy and her eyes were glassy.

"Whatever you say, MinMin. Nighty night," Annie began to walk away, to retreat to her room and not be seen until in a few hours, but she stopped and turned back to Min-ji for a second,"by the way, I don't know if you've heard, but if you keep scowling like that your face is liable to get stuck."

Min-ji threw one last glare as the girl passed the banister and ascended the stairs, muttering to herself as she reached for a muffin in the center of the island. "Smart ass."

─────────────────────────

Annie did not wake up at her usual time, in fact, she was beyond late and that was totally out of character for her. The next time she opened her eyes, she was curled up in an odd position on her bed with the sheets somewhere on the floor. Annie always got hot at night, but cold in the day. It took her a moment to register the sun--something she wasn't used to seeing in the morning--when she pried her eyes to stay open and rubbed them awake. She took in a deep breath and turned her head.

8:39 a.m

"Fucking ducks," Annie cursed, flinging herself off her bed. She grabbed her phone and headed downstairs, her mind wandering to the earlier hours of the morning she first trekked down the steps. The reason she woke up of course, she hadn't lied to Min-ji, was because of the wave of emotion she felt. The rush if excitement and worry practically being shoved down her throat, dreams of yellow and pink with swirls and beautiful music shook her awake. She practically choked on enthusiasm, instantly grabbing her laptop and writing down the music she hears in her dream. Angelic, light and a beat that crawled out of hell. It was perfect, hut Annie had no clue what it was for.

When she stumbled into the kitchen, her hands were running through her hair quickly. Yanking out knots and unwanted curls, she crunched her nose as she ignored the pain.

"Well good morning, sleeping beauty," Annie snapped a glare towards Hidaya, suddenly feeling the urge to choke the woman to death with her hijab. Hidaya smirked, a mug of whatever concoction she needed to slurp in the mornings loosely supper in her hands.

"Careful," Annie warned, "I might teach you a new way to wrap your hijab." Hidaya rolled her eyes, sipping her tea. Annie bit her cheek, sifting through the pantry.

"Like you have time for that," Ami snorted tossing the girl a silver rectangular packe,"It's brown sugar. Go get dressed, we have dance practice then a meeting with BigHit."

Annie froze,"BigHit?"

Ami nodded, nibbling on the eggs and bacon laid out in front of her that she did not bother to share with anyone else. "Yeah, you know, the company over BTS."

Annie nodded slowly,"Right. Yeah." As Ami said BTS, Annie got the burst of pinks and yellows around her vision. "Okay."

─────────────────────────

"Why on Earth," Min-Ji questioned, breathing heavily and patting her forehead with a towel,"is this meeting scheduled after a dance practice? That's like taking team photos after the first practice of the season. It's satanic!"

Annie scrunched her face at the girl as they walked down the pristine lavender walls of the company building. "You're so over dramatic," Annie shook her head at her best friend, throwing her towel at the girls chest.

"I just dont get it,"Min-Ji mumbled, pulling a grossed out face as she plucked the towel off of her shirt and handed it to Ami. The sweet mom of the group took the towel without hesitation and send a secret annoyed look to Hidaya.

"Well dont think too much," Annie warned, her hand wrapping around the handle to their bosses office,"Might hurt yourself."

"Oh, so original."

The four girls stumbled awkwardly into the office, dressed in sweatpants and jumpers quickly thrown over sports bras. Annie inspected everyone else in the room, definitely underdressed.

"Girls, glad you could make it." Danielle greeted them, a tight smile stretched across her flushed cheeks.

Annie scrunched her nose, sliding into a rolly chair on the opposite side of the table where a boy with pink hair resided. She muttered to herself, no one in particular,"You literally make our schedules."

Ami reached over Min-Ji and smacked the girls bicep, Annie jumped in surprise as her fist made contact. The coffee addict gave Ami a bewildered look, puzzled and hurt.

"Shush,"Annie pouted, she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms like a child; she obeyed Ami's wishes.

"Right then," Danielle mainly spoke to the girls and the man sitting at the far end of the table, which Annie thought to be highly rude despite knowing the men couldn't understand many words her boss was saying. "Black Summer, meet BTS. BTS, meet Black Summer."

Hidaya opened her mouth, a smirk resident on her face."BS is always a swell term too."

Annie's eyes watched in fascination as the translator at the end of the table spoke, she could only understand the simple words and, in that moment, she thanked whatever god was out there that Min-Ji forced them into Korean language lessons. She watched the translator falter after he realized the sentences he had just flipped languages and reiterated to the seven gorgeous boys of Bangtan.

Annie's lips parted, she finally took the chance to look at them; they were all looking at each other.

The first one seemed to be a little younger than Annie, herself. Her had a blunt nose and big doe eyes that Annie enjoyed comparing to Ami's, but his were the same color as Annie's rather than a sky blue. He smiled as the translator finished Hidaya's witty snap and Annie bit her cheek as she realized the only thing she should be comparing him to is a bunny.

She moved on, there was a lot of territory to cover.

The next one that seemed most intriguing was the boy right across from her, he had flaming pink locks and cheeks that, even before smiling, poked around his eyes. He was one of the prettiest men Annie had ever laid eyes on, and she had met Shawn Mendes a month ago. He smiled at Annie as their eyes met and the coffee addict couldn't help but reciprocate the grin, his happiness was intoxicating and contagious like a disease Annie never wanted to be cured of.

She gave him a small wave and continued to find someone that interested her. The next two had their arms around each other in an affectionate but casual way, Annie noticed that one of them had his face flushed and he didn't fit the standard Korean beauty Min-Ji had ranted about so many times before. He had a bashful smile, they both did, but his was accompanied by dimples carving his cheeks. The other had broad shoulder that looked to dig into the others chest, but Annie noticed he didn't seem to mind. Annie liked his hair color, it reminded her of coffee with lots of creamer. The way Min-Ji likes her coffee.

The one she surveyed next had a bright boxy smile and strikingly jet black hair, his eyes scrunched--though not as much as cotton candy hair in front of her-- which made him seem like the brightest bottle of sunshine that Annie wanted to get absolutely wasted on. He had cute glasses on his head Annie swore she could pull out of Ami's flamboyant wardrobe.

Annie inspected two boys next, one had the brightest smile on his face -- brighter than cotton candy's and glasses' over there -- and he had his arm timidly linked with another boy's. The boy with the bright smile, Annie saw burst of yellow around him and her glance flickered to the other boys hair. The familiar melody she had dreamed of danced in her head, ricocheting between her ears. Annie felt oddly happy while looking at him and, while she didn't have time to cyber stalk them, assumed his alias was J-Hope from what she's heard. He returned her small, hesitant smile with the biggest one shed received so far. The boy attached to him, however, was looking over at something else instead of Annie's twitching lips.

Annie's lips parted, her interest finally peeked. He had grey hair with the slightest purple undertones, as if it hadn't all the way washed out. He had the smallest of smiles etched on his face, but the apples of his cheeks were the color of strawberry smoothies. Annie head the melody become accompanied with harmonies, the pitches blending in the back of her brain and a numbing mumble of lyrics just out of reach for her to understand.

Then he turned, his gaze shifted and their eyes met.

As soon as abyss collided with abyss, Annie felt a headache stab at her corneas. A dull ache, like beating a drum, pound at the back of her head. When Annie got the perfect look right into his mind from his eyes, mugs black coffee, the only way she drank it, Annie swallowed the pain. The melody boomed, the harmonies collided in perfect rhythm and the lyrics were there, dancing in front of her eyes where splashes of yellow and pink highlighted the most beautiful features of the man in front of her.

She blinked as he looked down at his hands, her own hands fidgeted before they shot out the notebook splayed out in front of Danielle.

"Annie?" Her boss jumped at her abrupt movements, almost shielding her face as the girl swiped things off the desk to find a pen. "Here! Here!"

Annie didnt finding the time to mumble a thank you ad her boss handed her a blue inked pen, her mind to busy running around with butterfly nets trying to catch and preserve every last note and lyric with pins into their wings and glass magnifying their beautiful colors. She didn't feel everyone's eyes on her, especially not the boy who caused symphonies in her head's.

Min-Ji leaned back, a proud smile adorned her perfect features. In her home language, the one she perfected when she was just a kid, she spoke to BTS. "That's just Annie being Annie, she finds music in the beauty around her." Min-Ji's eyes flickered around their faces,"One of you just became her muse. That song will exist because of you."

Annie didn't hear her words, but if she did; she would've bashfully agreed. A flustered smile would've pricked her cheeks once again and she would've tried her damn hardest to not look at the boy with the grey hair and perfect face. Knowing good and well he knew he was the last person she looked at before her outburst, they both knew...

He became her muse.

[knightedwriter]

Secrets of the Suffering

To celebrate reaching 1,500 followers (now almost 2000!), I decided to do a mini series of the events following Alderon’s turning. This is part two of that series.

[@kai-hogan, @alittleyellowdinosaur, @incandescent-creativity, @lux-scriptum, @kclenhartnovels, @theprissythumbelina, @polapipo, @gingerly-writing, @aesterea, @ally-thorne, @no-url-ideas-tho, @theguildedtypewriter, @abbywritesfiction, @cog-writes. If you’d like to be added to the list, please let me know! If you’d like to be taken off, please let me know too.]

[First]

Fingers curled into his hair, stroking. Always stroking.

Alderon looked up into the vampire’s red eyes and gulped at the hunger he saw there. Foolish. He’d been so foolish to think the mysterious traveler held the key to his happiness. Cradled in the man’s arms, Alderon wished he’d listened to Charmeine. He shouldn’t have been so desperate to find someone.

“Don’t worry,” the vampire soothed, flashing sharp teeth that made Alderon’s stomach flip. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

Alderon’s mouth went dry. What didn’t hurt? The bite? He swallowed hard, lips trembling. “Please.” He had no pride as he let the word drop. He just wanted those hands away from him. He just wanted to go home.

The vampire hushed him, brushing icy fingers over his cheek. Ice that he’d never questioned before, that he’d been too blinded to notice. He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears threatened to fall and his mouth felt like cotton and he wanted to scream but his voice was too choked to do so.

“No, no, no,” the vampire whispered, pressing cold lips to his forehead. “Don’t cry, my sweet. It’s not so bad. The turning is the worst part. You’ll get used to everything else.”

Turning? Alderon opened his eyes, mouth working around the question.

The vampire smiled gently; a smile that had drawn him in, promising something new, something exciting. “That’s it.” He patted Alderon’s cheek. “You’ll make a fine vampire.”

“No,” Alderon choked out before he could stop himself. “You can’t—I—” He wasn’t sure how this was so much worse, but it was.

The vampire cocked his head, smile gone. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be with me? That you wanted to go on adventures? What greater adventure, then?” His fingers moved to Alderon’s neck, freezing now. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.”

He leaned forward and Alderon screamed as fangs pressed against his throat.

Alderon cried out and scrambled up. His heart throbbed against his chest. His senses jolted with electricity, insisting on danger, but when he looked around he found nothing aside from a silent night layered under the impassive gleam of stars.

He put a hand to his chest and gasped for breath, ears still ringing from a distant scream.

“Still having those nightmares?”

Alderon jerked his head up and found Eliura perched on the lowest branch of a nearby tree, her scarlet eyes bright pinpoints in the dark. He broke eye contact with a shiver. They reminded him too much of the vampire in his dream.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Eliura continued. Her eyes jumped back to their usual electric blue as she shifted to face him.

“Are you going to tell me to get over it?” Alderon snapped. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to tear into something. No, someone. He shook the thought away.. What he didn’t want was Eliura condescending to him.

“No.” When Alderon glanced up in surprise, she continued, “I had my fair share of them after I turned, and my turning wasn’t even close to as bad as yours was. So, I get it. Partly.” She hopped down and stretched, arms rippling with muscle. She eyed him again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What is there to talk about?” Alderon muttered, drawing his knees to his chest. “It is nothing new.” He’d already told her everything that had happened to him the day they met. He hadn’t had time to think about what he’d wanted to share or not: She’d shaken him and flashed her eyes and demanded answers, and they spilled obediently from his bloodied lips while his body shuddered and burned.

“Don’t give me that. Clearly it still bothers you. Talking will help.”

“Do not act like you care about me,” Alderon spat, his rage boiling up his throat before he could control it. “You do not give a shit what I’ve been through.”

"Oh, and you’re so sure about that, are you?” Eliura snarled. She stalked forward, hands curled into fists. Alderon froze under her stare. “I drag you out of the dirt, tend to your wounds, teach you to survive, but of course, you’re right, I don’t really care. How could I? It’s not like I’ve been through anything similar. Not like I’ve done the same for thousands before you.”

“Eliura—”

“You think you’re the only person who’s been through tragedy? The only one who’s lost someone? You’re not the center of the goddamn universe!”

“I know that—”

“Then it’s time to start acting like it. You’re so stuck in your past that you’re convinced I’m the enemy. But the truth is, I want you to survive. For yourself, for the friend you lost. I doubt she’d want to see you like this.”

Alderon sucked in a breath, pain needling into his chest as if Eliura had driven a dagger into his heart. He tried to find the words to defend himself, but when he looked up he saw Charmeine standing in Eliura’s place. Ice slid into his veins. The specter disappeared in a blink, but not before the dagger twisted in his chest.

“You shouldn’t be so quick to give your heart away. You’re enough.”

“You’re not broken. Neither of us are.”

“Now, now, I’m not letting you sulk. You gotta march over there and give Zaz what-for.”

“I want you to learn,” Eliura continued, dropping a heavy hand onto his shoulder, “because you have as much a right to live as anyone else. And I will do anything to ensure you have that chance. What part of that tells you I don’t care?”

Alderon’s lips pulled down and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She glared at him a moment longer before her pinched look softened. With a shake of her head, she said, “I’m sure you are. I’m much too old for this shit, you know. Not like it doesn’t happen every time I take on a new student.”

“It…does?”

Eliura snorted. “You’re not the only one to go through hell. Not the only one to have a close friend die for you, either. Or to go through such a shitty betrayal.” He flinched, and she sighed again. “I’ve been at this for two thousand years. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

Alderon’s eyes widened. Did she just say two thousand? Three weeks, almost four, and she hadn’t said a thing about her age. He’d assumed she was a few centuries old—old enough to teach what she’d learned—but two thousand?

"You’re—you’re an Anc—”

“Don’t call me Ancient,” Eliura snapped. “It’s just plain rude.”

“I did not know.”

“I’d be surprised if you did. I was supposed to stop aging.”

“But why didn’t you tell me? I—I might have—”

“What, started respecting me more?” Eliura’s lips quirked up, a gleam in her eye. “As flattering as that is, I have a counter question: Why didn’t you ask?”

Alderon opened his mouth and then closed it just as quickly.

Eliura hummed, as if in agreement. “Right. Well, now that you’re done lashing out, I expect you to ask lots of questions. It’s the mark of a good student.”

She looked at him expectantly and Alderon swallowed hard. Sheepish, he asked, “So…just how powerful is an Ancient?”

Eliura flapped a hand, a look of disdain crossing her face. “Just as powerful as you, idiot. Don’t tell me you actually believe in all those rumors about us?” When Alderon just stared at her, she ran a hand down her face. “Everything you’ve heard about Ancients? Made up by hunters. With the exception of fae—who knows how the fuck they work—ancient immortals, or near-immortals, are every bit the same as a baby immortal.”

“Why would hunters make that up?”

Eliura shrugged. “Fear. Control the masses. Make the commoners think hunters should have as much power as possible. It’s working, I’ll tell you that much.”

Alderon avoided her gaze, looking to the stars above. The talk of hunters brought his dream to mind again. He clamored to stamp out the memory, focusing hard on the swirling constellations above, and on his next question. “You said you’ve been doing this for a long time. Why? Why do you teach new vampires?”

“No one did it for me and I wish they had.”

Alderon glanced back at her and met fiery eyes. They were a deeper, darker red than those of the vampire who turned him, he realized. “That’s all?”

Eliura shrugged. “It’s true. If I’d had someone—” She cut off and gritted her teeth. “If I’d had someone, things would have gone better. So, I’ll be that person. I’ve always liked teaching, anyway.”

“Did…did you deal with hunters too?”

She barked out a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “They didn’t exist back then. That was the life. Today’s vampires deal with a lot more danger with hunters around. That’s another reason I take them on.”

"Then what happened when you turned?” Alderon asked, rubbing his shoulder. Eliura had hit him a lot harder than he’d expected. He stopped when the silence between them stretched, glancing up to find the fire and amusement in Eliura’s eyes gone. He started at the emptiness in them and reached out a tentative hand to shake her shoulder. “Eliura?”

She blinked and focused on him again. “People turned on me. That’s all.”  He wrinkled his nose in disbelief but asking her outright seemed dangerous. He supposed even a two thousand-year-old vampire had her secrets. Still, that dead look in her eyes…in that moment, she seemed more human to him than ever.

“Any other questions, student of mine?” Eliura said with a sweep of her arm. Her eyes danced with light again and she gaze him a lazy look, as if she expected him to jab back.

Earlier, he might have, but the usual irritation didn’t come to him. Instead, he thought hard about what he wanted to ask next. Eliura was like a treasure trove of new information. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? He hadn’t felt this kind of excitement since the last book he’d picked up, weeks ago.

He opened his mouth to ask something else but stopped at the smile on Eliura’s face. “What?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Just seems I found something to work with.”

Alderon scowled and crossed his arms.

“Fine, save your questions.You should sleep, anyway.” She stood and returned to her tree. Before she climbed back up, however, she stopped with her hand on the bark, and glanced back over her shoulder. “If you want to talk about that nightmare, I’m here.”

Alderon hesitated. It was almost tempting, but he answered her with a shrug of his own. “Like I said. It is nothing new.”

Her eyes bored into him, their bright electric blue lighting up the night. Then she turned away and hopped back up onto her branch. Her gaze returned to the forest.

Alderon laid back down and closed his eyes.

“How’s your back?” Eliura asked suddenly.

He frowned over at her. “Alright. It did not open up at all today.”

“Good.” Red eyes found his, unreadable. “I think I know what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

[whosxafraid]

Jayden and Luka for the Married Life

Meme: Married Life Meme Status: CLOSED

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Shame. He has it. But not about physical things. At least not a lot. And there’s a certain sort of walk mortals talk about; that you do the morning after. Walk of Shame, if he’s got that right. But that’s not the sort of walk he’s doing is it? Even if for a second he thinks about pulling on lounge pants and a shirt, but she’s already seen what he usually hides from the world….So in nothing more than what he was born in, he gets up. Stepping on clothes that had been shed last night because tunnel vision is one hell of a drug.

Gets the coffee started. Checks the fridge. Realizes they’ll have to go out for breakfast because he’s all out of eggs. Something brushed off for the time being, as he allows the door to fall back shut of it’s own volition. Back to the window to clear the bowl of creme and throw away the burned out candle. The slightest of twitches to his lips, because he doesn’t know why he bothers hoping things will change.

Off to the table, clicking on the tv. Switching it to the morning news, while he surfs through the supernatural want ads. Don’t knock it. Once in a while there’s a high paying job in these things. Not everyone could know him by word of mouth. Why? Because that takes part of the fun out of it. The coffee pings and not a moment later he picks up the tread of feet.

         “Mornin’, love. Coffees ready. Be moi’ndin’ bringin’ me o’mug?”

A noise that sounds like agreement so he leaves her be. At least until a handfull of his ass is getting groped.

       Ya know most people at least put on pants when they get up in the morning.

          “Aye. Mos’ people do.”

forgets to run the dish washer

Time is…rather relative when you don’t age. And getting back from a job can be at any hour. Today it happens to be at two in the afternoon. He’s hungry. He’s tired. And he just wishes he could eat and sleep at the same time. But even he can’t manage that one. So eat first it is. Or would be if not for the fact the dishwashers not full of clean dishes. A minimal sigh, that pulls shoulders down into the dirt.

Okay, plan b. The steak gets put directly on the eye of the stove. Turned over twice. Picked up with tongues, then juggled between his hands a few moments before a chunk is bitten out of it. And that would have been the end of it if she hadn’t come home early. Stopped dead center in the kitchen door way, one brow lifted, like him with a pratically raw steak hanging out of his mouth is the weirdest thing she’s seen all week. Which by the way? He knows would be a lie if she tried it.

        “In me de’fense? S’no’ d’weir’est d’ing ye be walkin’ in on me doin’….”

               Did you just quote Tony Stark?

        “Maybe?”

And there’s a tired grin around the pound of flesh between his teeth. At least until he pulls. Tearing off a bite and chewing.

              Just….try not to get any on the floor and wipe up the stove. My mother’s coming over.

        “Aye, love. As ye loi’ke.”

pumps gas for the car

                 It’s one little stop over. I don’t see why you’re…

          “Oi’ said no. oi’dunna go d’ere less oi’absolutely have ta.”

Out of the car, leaving the door open. Pushing and pulling a card out. Punching in his pin. Punching the gas selection. He really hated rentals. But it couldn’t be helped.

              Have you seriously scheduled every flight you ever taken to compensate for not even wanting to BE in England’s air space?

       “Aye. An’ oi’ dunna plan on stoppin’ now, jus’cause i’be shavin’ an hour off travel toi’me.”

            Luka this is ridiculous. It’s been what? Twelve hundred years? Let-it-go!

He shuts the driver’s door without response. He’s not going to continue this argument right now. And he lets his ears settle to the clicking of the gas pump. Let it go? Over his damned dead body, he will.

drives when they’re going somewhere

They’ve been driving for a half hour. Not a word between them. And this is not at all how he’d pictured driving to through the Italian country side but here they are. And there’s a small huff, as he lets the window down. Lights up. He’s not going to break the silence, because he’s not going to bend. Not on this. Even if he knows in his heart of hearts of hearts–it is a little stupid. But he’s bitter and he’s been bitter about that one thing for ages.

          Fine. There’s a flight out of tomorrow night. Take an extra two hours but the lay overs in Iceland. Happy?

         “Aye.”

She’s upset. But he’s not going to apologize for it. Not yet anyway.

rearranges the furniture

It starts with not leaving her be while she attempts to make herself tea. Hands where they shouldn’t be going at one in the afternoon. Hands that get soundly popped, thrice. So he backs off for all of fifteen seconds. Trying again from a different angle behind the couch. Hands on her shoulders that don’t waste a lot of time sinking further down as teeth nibble at her neck. And this time she’s got a hold of his nose. Pulling him up by it.

       What’s gotten into you? I told you not right now. I have a meeting to get to in an hour.

          “D’at’s plen’y o’toi’me….soi’des how ye expect me ta be keepin’ me hands ta meself when ye smell loi’ke ye do?”

And he’s pushing forward. Stealing a kiss. And there go his hands again. Wandering places he knows will get him what he wants.

        Luka O’Ria–

And there’s a dawning sort of sun that rises over her entire being. Because it clicks and oh no. Oh god damn. And there really isn’t a fairness in making him wait. But she’s going to put up her best defense anyway. Because the chase is all part of the process.

So before he can react, she’s faded out of his hold. Appeared again behind the arm chair, and he moving with that one speed he usually saves for when he’s working. And the first thing to fall is the coffee table. The next the couch that’s tipped over, and the frame of it cracking under the pressure. The shattering of a light bulb when the lamp bites the dust. And by the end of it, one would think a small war had occurred in the loft. 

Books knocked off shelves, furniture split open and/or split in half entirely. Scatch marks in the wood floors the same as in flesh. And in the middle of it all, the heated pair of them. Echos still drifting on the air, walls settling back into place from the pressure. And if there’s one thing for sure? She’s going to be late, just like he’s going to be furniture shopping after she leaves.

falls asleep with the TV on

Sometimes she can’t sleep. Sometimes he can’t. The only difference is how they handle it. And though each other doesn’t know it…the other always wakes up. The only difference is how they handle that too. But tonight’s a little different isn’t it? Because she wakes up a second time and he’s not come back to bed. The easy sound of water shifting as he cuts up and down the pool isn’t there. And well she can hardly be blamed can she?

Blanket wrapped snugly around her, treading lightly over wood panels. And to be honest she’d expected to find him bent over his table. Researching or working his way through plans for a job but what she finds…

He’s asleep. Head propped up by one hand, in his chair. The record player near by skipping off its track. And she’s twice as careful and quiet after that. Moving the book that’s been threatening to slide out of his lap for who knows how long, to the table. Hanging up the record needle and switching it off; along with the lamp. Pulling his head away from his hand, to lay it back against the chair, that she reclines. No sense in him waking up with a crik in his neck. Then comes the blanket. Cast over him as gently as possible, and there’s a small wince when a rather canine quaffle escapes him. But thankfully he doesn’t wake up. And Jay? She slips off back to bed. Not to say a word about it come morning.

gets to use the bathroom first

Sometimes but not always she wakes up first. Lays there in the stillness of the pre-dawn, wondering how she got here. Where she’d be if she wasn’t here. But then the quiet clink of metal and brown is drawn to the familiar looking up at her from across the room. And that’s her que isn’t it? 

She gets up. Quiet and slow so as not to wake him. Not that she thinks a canon going off could do that right now. He’s probably still got enough alchol in his system (to numb the hole in his shoulder), to kill three horses. Something that is only emphasized by the way his hand slides from her middle. Flopping dead weight on the bed that’s already cooling with her absence. 

Then it’s off to the bathroom. To shower and find clothes for the day. They’re not normal…they’ll never be that. But every once in a while it’s nice to pretend that they are. And she’ll let him sleep, while she lets Prue out before getting started on breakfast. Because canon fire might not rouse him, but the scent of sweet bread and bacon? That can raise the dead. Just don’t ask her how she knows that.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

            I’m back!—-Luka?

        “Up here, love.”

              Holy shit, what the fuck are yo—

        “Fan no’ runnin’. M’replacin’ d’rotor.”

              How the hell did you even–

         “Pulley ropes. Installed ‘em when oi’ renovated d’place.”

And there’s a few seconds where she’s just standing there with the bag of groceries. Open mouthed staring up into the ceiling where all she can really see are his swinging feet and the occasional flash of red hair. But then she’s shaking it off the almost surreal feeling of it all. Because how long ago had he renovated? The truth is? She doesn’t want to know. It’ll just make her feel like she’s five and remind her he’s older than the dirt her great five times removed grandmother was buried in. And she almost laughs when a question comes drifting down from the ceiling.

         “D’ink ye can be doin’ me o’favor and flippin’ d’eigh’d breaker switch?”

sets up holiday decorations

Incessant knocking. And even though it takes him only a few seconds to open it, the person–or rather familiar–on the other side huffs. Pushes her way inside a bit frantically. Tinsel stuck in her hair and garland hanging off her shoulders. A crooked set of reindeer horns half cocked on her head.

            Save me.

           “From wha’, lass? Ye look loi’ke ye go’o’ttacked boi’y d’at wan’o’be elf.”

          Jay. She’s decorating the shop and everything i–wait you’ve met Santa?!

           “In passin’….”

          Get out!

           “Ye know fer o’magical bein’ ye no’ really me’ many people have ye?”

        Well I mean yea I have but n—oh no. HIDE ME SHE’S COMING.

leaves the lights on

Sentimental. 

There was a time when she’d gone. Disappeared out of his life as quick as a snowflake melts on his tongue. And he’d been forced to move on. Forced to pick up and keep going, because what choice did he have? Though it gnawed at him for decades. More so than any of the others that had come before her. And company…was not sought after in the wake of her. At least not in the same form.

And once a year, every year he’d put a candle of another kind in the window by his reading chair. Tall and strong. The kind of wick meant to burn slow and last well into the wee hours of the morning. And when he rose the next day it was cleared the same as the flameless light by the bowl of creme in the kitchen. So the routine became habit, until he’d stopped thinking his way through the ritual.

Stopped remembering every candle marked another birthday spent without her. Because the day wasn’t important it was the year in between. And though he knew in the bottom of his soul she had to be gone, the kind of gone mortals do not return from, by the fiftieth time, he’d carried onward through the decades. 

The corpse of every single tower of wax still encases the single candle holder. Collecting dust now on a shelf. Its existence forgotten most days, because against odds he’d never imagined, she’d come back. So it is left to the ages of the past, where he has every intention of leaving it. Though he never finds the heart to throw it out. It had been his first birthday candle after all. 

uses the bathroom with the door open

There are things. That no matter how old you become. No matter how weird the things are that you’ve seen…there is something utterly alien about what he’s currently staring at. Coffee filtering steam up into the air in front of him. To the point that he hasn’t moved in the last thirty seconds. To the point what the feck doesn’t even begin to cover it so it never makes it out of his mouth. Though it suddenly makes sense why the toilet paper would be torn off at weird angles periodically.

The sound of flushing, and then the clitter clatter of claws on the tile turning to wood panels. An annoyed sort of quaffle as the familiar goes click clacking by him. And honestly? He needs another few seconds to process it all; before he turns on his heel and vacates the door way. Because nope. He’s not had near enough coffee to calculate all the ways that didn’t add up. Only to get as far as the kitchen before remembering he had to piss. And its back round again, giving Jay nothing more than a single pointer finger, when she asks if he wants his eggs scrambled or fried.

One thing at a time.

One.thing.at.a.time.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

             How should I know?! It just stopped pumping.

Hands up because okay, okay. And back down he goes. Cramming himself into a space he really should not be able to fit at all. Bending in ways he knows his back is going to be punishing him for later. But right now all that matters is getting the pump to the latte machine working. Before Jayden goes nuclear…literally.

Something turned….something else tightened. Flashlight between his teeth starting to taste like lead. 

      “Proi’y i’mouw.”

            What?!

A sigh, worming his way back out. Yanking the flash light out of his mouth.

      “Troi’y i’now.”

And there’s a second where he will never admit he’s holding his breath, because if that doesn’t do it….whirling and something fires off and there it goes. The vibration of the pump that’s the tell tell sign hot water is on it’s way up to fill the tank reserve in the machine.

             YES!

It almost looks as though she’s going to hug it, instead opting to kiss its metal front; before she’s turning to him. Grabbing his face and planting one right on his lips. And ya know? The last thirty minutes of being squashed in the space too small for a toddler becomes completely worth it. Cob webs still stuck in his hair and beard regardless.